"Papa, you received Lady Wetheral's note, of course?" said Miss Kerrison.
"Eh, what?"
"Lady Wetheral's note, papa—the note you received yesterday from Wetheral!"
Sir Foster sat winking, but could not remember any note.
"Oh, papa, you received a note, and I am sure it is in your pocket. Pray, let me look into the recesses of your enormous pockets?"
Miss Kerrison playfully emptied her father's pockets, and Lady Wetheral's note appeared with its seal unbroken, accompanied by sundry letters, straps, nails, and a shoeing horn. Clara's eyes flashed indignation, but her mother's smiled sweetly.
"My dear Sir Foster, I must not complain of your very absent mind, since I only suffer with the rest of the world. Upon my word, this is very amusing! See, my dear Lucy, how entertaining this assemblage of articles promises to be!"
Sir Foster stared, while the ladies laughed over the miscellaneous contents of his pocket. Clara alone sat dignified and offended. Lady Wetheral explained the purport of her note, and begged the company of Miss Kerrison for a longer and indefinite period. Sir Foster hummed an air and tapped his boot during her complimentary and lengthy speech.
"Papa always implies consent when he hums and taps, Lady Wetheral, so that is delightfully arranged: but why, papa, did you call here this morning?"